Emily H. and I have discovered that we have something in common. Besides curly hair. And our respective lady bits.

We’re obsessed with pie.

Sweet pie, savory pie, vegetarian pie, breakfast pies, dessert pies. Pies filled with scrambled eggs and pies brimming with plump cherries. Pies with one crust, pies with top crust, flaky crust, dense crust, crumbly crust.

I could go on, using every delicious adjective in the dictionary.

My pie fever isn’t a secret, exactly, but I didn’t realize that anyone in the office shared my burning enthusiasm until Emily opened the Rooftop fridge, saw my lunch, and shrieked, “Vegetable pot pie!? Whose is this?!”

I had a tasty little box of microwavable heaven waiting for me, this seductive little whore of a lunchtime gem:

(It’s heaven in a cardboard box. That’s right, even in a cardboard box, even fresh out d’microwave, pie is perfection.I brought another one for lunch today.)

It was then that we discovered the thread that forever shall bind us together.

And, today, I brought a vegetable pot pie for Emily, so that we can exist, for a moment, in perfect, blissed out, pie-freak harmony.

We’ve been talking about pie all morning. Apparently, there are restaurants/cafes in San Francisco that serve ONLY. PIE. I’m new to town, so I’d had no idea. If I’d had, maybe I’d have moved to the Left Coast sooner. Maybe now, I’ll never leave. You know what, Boston? I’m not coming home. There. I said it. I’m not coming home until YOU can PROVE TO ME that you care about pie as much as San Francisco does. Yes, you’ve got your own signature pie, but, frankly Boston? That’s not going to cut it anymore.

My love for pie? Burns too brightly. An eternal flame. For pie.

I’m even thinking of making a Cheetos pie for the Rooftop Fatluck.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Pie.

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